It was the Summer of 1996, and I was 9 years-old.My mother, her third husband, my sister, and me were living in a trailer park many miles outside Fort Hood, Texas. I don’t know how far out we were, but it was far enough that there was nothing else around.It was remote. It was hot. It was bleak.The trailer park was a small one, about ten boxes total arranged in a crooked semicircle, and there were six kids in the neighborhood, all of us around the same age range, more or less, and the Texas sun was almost as unforgiving as the stickers that didn’t need more than a few times to teach us to wear our shoes outside.The sunsets were almost always gorgeous—as Texas sunsets tend to be—but you had to work for them. You had to get through the heat.Our mother worked nights and most days, and her husband was often training with his Army tank unit, which mercifully kept him away most of that summer.It was just us kids. We would chance the heat for an hour or two during the day and finally retreat indoors. There was no A/C. There were no computers. There were few books. There were no adults. And there was no cable. Here’s what we had: a television, about a dozen VHS tapes, our imaginations, and each other.That summer was, I hope, the closest I’ll ever come to being stranded on an island.Because our trailer had the only working TV in the group—which, even as I type that, seems improbable but it’s quite true—the six of us would gather in our living room and watch one of the tapes together.By far, by a mile, the tape we watched the most was “Grease” — often multiple times a day because what the hell else were we gonna do? Over those few months, we probably watched that movie at least a hundred times. Even now, I could probably do most of the script from memory.I fell in love with Olivia Newton-John. I really wanted to be her. I wanted to sing like her. I wanted to dress like her. Being the nerd I was, I wanted good grades like her. I wanted a cute poodle skirt and long hair and a ribbon to secure it. And that was all quite scary to think about, and I didn’t know what to do with it. There were four girls and two boys, but given that it was Central Texas and the mid-90s and a conservative environment in those parts and I was firmly in the closet, the group saw itself as three girls and three boys.The oldest girl was three years older than the rest of us, and she lived across from our trailer in the semicircle. Her name was Samantha. She had a younger brother about a year younger than me.I was in awe of her, but also: she was a bit annoying because whenever we’d reenact the scenes from “Grease”, she’d play Sandy and insist that I—being the oldest “boy”—play Danny, which pissed me off, and I certainly had no way of explaining this to anyone, so I didn’t say anything.After a few times of our doing “You’re the One That I Want” together, she said, in quite a serious tone: “You have a really good voice”. And from then, confirmed and smitten, I pledged to sing with her whenever she asked, despite my annoyance that I couldn’t play Sandy.But at night, as the heat melted into something bearable and the crickets sang their own songs, I would lay in bed and softly hum “Hopelessly Devoted to You”, trying to see if I could do what she did. That soon turned into daytime walks I would take by myself near the trailer park—not exactly a safe activity for a 9 year-old in those days—and away from other human ears, I would sing the song out loud, over and over, sensing the places that needed a bit of sanding, shaping my voice to what I heard on the television.I would do this in 20 min. spurts, braving as much heat as I could, and arriving back at the trailer, sweaty and pink and numbed from the vibrations of my voice, my sister and our friends, with eyebrows raised, would ask: “Where were you? Why do you keep disappearing?”“Just exploring,” I’d say, as though there was much to explore in that patch of countryside hell.It was in late July when the trailer caught on fire while we were sleeping, just a few weeks before the start of my 4th grade year. No one was hurt because we all got out in time, but we definitely had to move. The Army put us up in military housing on base, and for the first time I can recall, I lived in a place with A/C.The following year, there were auditions for 5th grade choir, and throwing caution to the wind, I walked into the choir teacher’s room when my turn came and proceeded, in my pre-adolescent 1st Soprano voice, to belt out the tune I had sung so many times on that hot and dusty countryside road.I’m not even gonna pretend that I didn’t nail it. I sang that ballad like my life depended on it, and when I had finished, a few moments passed, and the choir teacher, mouth slightly agape, asked: “Where did that come from?”“It’s from Grease”, I told her, completely oblivious, my then-11 year-old-self surprised she hadn’t yet seen it. “It’s really good. You should watch it.”She laughed and mercifully said: “I’ll do that.”I didn’t grow up to be Olivia Newton-John, but I did grow up in a world made a little brighter by her voice, both in song and advocacy.Because she strongly supported LGBTQ people, I grew up in a world made a little safer and a little more authentic for girls like me.I’m only sorry I never got to tell her that. Thanks, Olivia. Rest easy.Charlotte's Web Thoughts is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.Hi, I’m Charlotte Clymer, and this is Charlotte’s Web Thoughts, my Substack. It’s completely free to access and read, but if you feel so moved to support my writing, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription: just $7/month or save money with the $70/annual sub. You can also go way above and beyond by becoming a Founding Member at $210. Get full access to Charlotte's Web Thoughts at charlotteclymer.substack.com/subscribe

Dorothy Gale is an empathetic young girl who finds herself—and her little dog, too—targeted by the wealthy and harassed by law enforcement. Accused of murder, she goes on the lam and wounds up caring for men who have no heart, brains, or nerve. She is thrust into navigating dangerous circumstances beyond her control and only finds resolution when finally offered the choice to click her heels and go back to how things used to be.She’s also 11. Did you know that? It doesn’t seem quite right, but it’s true. She carries the expectations of an adult, looks around 16 or 17 in the movie, seems intended to be perceived as 13 or 14, but she’s literally 11. One of the most famous teenagers in American pop culture is actually a younger child being treated like an adult, and a story that revolves around enduring forced circumstances celebrates choice as the payoff. About 30 months ago, some middled-aged men in Kansas, none of whom have ever had a uterus, introduced a state constitutional amendment in the legislature establishing there is no right to an abortion. What followed was a rollercoaster of protesting and rejections and court jousting and procedural jockeying and, eventually, much later, passage of that resolution with a clear two-thirds majority, then to be put forward before the voters for ratification.Last night, ratification was on the ballot and the voters finally got to have a direct say on the question, and there’s really no spinning their clear wish: abortion access should be protected.As of this morning, with 95 percent of precincts reporting, the anti-choice position was losing by more than 17 points. Did I mention this is Kansas? Kansas, where Trump won by 15% in 2020 and 20% in 2016?Kansas, where the only Democratic presidential candidate who has won in the past 80 years needed southern bona fides and the greatest political television ad of all-time to do it?Kansas, where the Republican Party holds supermajorities in both chambers of the state legislature?That Kansas.It’s the same state that became a focal point of political commentary in 2004 and something of an avatar for the conservative movement, when Thomas Frank published his NYT-bestselling “What’s the Matter with Kansas?”, an exasperating exercise that essentially said Democrats should focus less on things like abortion and LGBTQ rights and more on kitchen table issues, as though neither of those things aren’t at the very heart of what families talk about around the kitchen table.Because perception is what drives narrative and Kansas is so easily situated in Americana, absolutely bursting with amber waves of grain, blood red in the nation’s mind, it came as a shock last night when Kansas voters said: actually, we really care about having access to abortion care. The margin-of-victory is so overwhelming—and the ballot question so clear in language—that it easily hurdles any feeble attempts at spin. There is no way to reasonably argue the result. Kansas, a solidly Republican state, supports abortion access. That is now simply a hardcore truth any GOP strategist worth their salt is seriously reconciling this morning as the country enters the home stretch of the midterms.If access to abortion care is a winning issue in Kansas, it’s a winning issue for the country. Democratic leaders—I pray, I hope, I beg—are witnessing this result and making the common sense decision to heavily campaign on abortion access.Because last night didn’t happen by accident. It’s easy for some to forget that the state has now had TWO strong Democratic women for governors in the past 20 years, including incumbent Laura Kelly, who won in 2018 on the strength of Republican voters disillusioned with party-nominee-slash-certified-clown Kris Kobach and young progressive field organizers who ferociously mobilized.Kelly won in 2018 because the outreach got done and she had a clear and compelling message to voters. Abortion access won last night because the outreach got done and organizers had a clear and compelling message to voters.This doesn’t need to be complicated, and yet, some Democrats certainly find a way to put on their insufferable “game theory” hats and talk a lot about kitchen table conversations to which they’ve never actually listened.If they were to listen, as organizers clearly did, they would understand how horrifying it’s been for voters in Kansas—and across the country—to hear stories about 10 year-old rape survivors traveling out-of-state for life-saving health care, lest they be forced to give birth.Those journeys don’t end by waking up from a fever dream. They are all too real and the consequences all too terrible.Democrats need to have a united national message around abortion equity and make it absolutely clear that when it comes to seeking out life-saving health care, there’s no place like home.Charlotte's Web Thoughts is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.Hi, I’m Charlotte Clymer, and this is Charlotte’s Web Thoughts, my Substack. It’s completely free to access and read, but if you feel so moved to support my writing, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription: just $7/month or save money with the $70/annual sub. You can also go way above and beyond by becoming a Founding Member at $210. Get full access to Charlotte's Web Thoughts at charlotteclymer.substack.com/subscribe

[As always, this little blog/newsletter is how I pay my bills, and I would be so grateful if you support my writing with a paid subscription.]My working theory—and I’m being generous by calling it a mere “working theory”—is that a sizable chunk of cisgender people (that is, people who are not transgender) truly do not understand the controversy over trans-inclusion in pregnancy discussions.Several years ago, pre-pandemic, I gave a talk to a law firm in D.C. about trans visibility, clarifying much of the understandable—but easily preventable—confusion over trans identities and rights. The talk went well! It was collaborative and informative, but afterward, someone in attendance walked up to me and, with the slightest tinge of annoyance or aggravation in their voice, asked if they could pose a “potentially insensitive question” to me.I wish I had a dollar for every time I’ve had those three words put to me since coming out.The person’s question: “Can you get pregnant?”Now, personally, I have no desire to be pregnant, and as much as I love playing Auntie Charlotte to my friends’ children and generally find kids adorable, I don’t want any of my own. So, this question wasn’t insensitive on that count, but the directness and tone of this person’s voice when they asked that question has stayed with me, even years later.I still remember the look on their face, shades of subtle anger, and I couldn’t tell if they were asking this question to make a point (as though it couldn’t be made in a more polite way and also: why) or if they were trying to hurt my feelings. Maybe both.I think most trans and nonbinary people are forced to make a quick decision when confronted with this kind of unnecessary hostility. We are forced to pick our battles—because there are simply far too many to negotiate daily—and decide if this is a moment worth engaging with our authentic feelings and to what level, be that anger or dismay or frustration or exhaustion. If there is a large spectrum of possible responses bookended on one side by “be nice and diplomatic” and “let this a*****e know where they can stick their unnecessary question” on the other, I try my very best to yield to a polite median.Of course, I had just given a productive talk, which required a lot of vulnerability, and I realized that my nerves were, perhaps, too raw to hew a dignified anger that illustrates as much as it admonishes. And I made a choice to swallow my own anger and be diplomatic, a choice I have made countless times in the past and will make countless times in the future.“No, I cannot pregnant,” I told them. “I don’t have a uterus. I also don’t menstruate. Like all trans woman and some cis women, I have no idea what it’s like to experience these things. I try my best to be an effective ally to women who can and do experience pregnancy and menstruation.”I don’t know if my tone had its own tinge of anger, but I would like to believe I kept a soft restraint.They looked taken aback and didn’t know what to say in response. Their shoulders seemed to relax, their posture softened, their eyes dimmed from the alert status with which they had approached. They had come looking to have their own anger and annoyance validated, maybe to debate me, I guess, and suddenly, much to their surprise, they had nothing to be angry about.“Okay,” they said, softly. “That makes sense. I appreciate your time. Thank you for answering.”I had a question of my own for them and asked if I could pose it. They had almost seemed a tad apologetic, and I got the sense they wanted to make up for it by being amenable.“Yes, of course, happy to answer.”I asked: “How often do you point out the importance of ensuring that trans men and nonbinary people have access to the reproductive health care they need?”They stared back in confusion, and a few moments passed without either of us saying anything. And then, some kind of switch was flipped, dots were quickly connected, and they seemed to realize, in that moment, that there are trans men and nonbinary people, having uteruses, who get pregnant, who menstruate, who need access to necessary medical care.“Oh…”, they said. “Uh…”I didn’t say anything — just waited for them to answer.“Honestly, I didn’t know that. That’s good to know.”They thanked me for the talk, shook my hand, and went on their way.On Monday, Professor Khiara Bridges, who teaches law at Berkeley and has quickly become my favorite person ever, was testifying before the Senate Judiciary Committee about abortion restrictions when Sen. Josh Hawley pursued a line of questioning that attempted to weaponize trans issues against Democrats, as we’ve frequently now seen with the embarrassing and pedantic and childish “what is a woman” query that they believe, for some reason, is the ultimate gotcha.Because that’s the other—and dare I say, quite troubling—thing about all this: why do these people insist that having the ability to become pregnant is solely what makes a woman?Going through menopause? Not a woman, to these people.Trouble conceiving? Not woman-ing enough. Step it up, apprentice lady.Gotten a hysterectomy or born without a uterus? Revocation of your membership among women, by their code.Don’t have children? Don’t want children? You’re not a real woman, and you won’t be a real woman until you’re pushing out a fleshy container of germ-infested Baby Shark fandom.That’s what they think.Prof. Bridges was having none of it and let Hawley know real quick how unnecessary and bankrupt and, yes, transphobic, it is to pursue that line of questioning. Notice how Prof. Bridges didn’t mention trans women at all. Because trans women have nothing to do with this. Trans women cannot become pregnant. That we’re even alluded to in this whole discussion is absurd.And yet, I find that even many educated adults don’t understand this very simple concept, like last month when a reporter with whom I was discussing this with genuinely asked me why the abortion rights movement is being forced to include trans women. What?He honestly was under the impression that trans people were demanding that Planned Parenthood and NARAL and all the other amazing repro orgs acknowledge that trans women are capable of pregnancy. I asked him if he meant trans men and explained the whole having-of-the-uterus thing, and wouldn’t you know it? His voice alighted with sudden insight over the phone and I heard that familiar “Ohhh…”This has happened far too much lately to believe it’s an anomaly. I think there are numerous cis adults, however well educated, who are walking around with the belief that trans activists are saying trans women can get pregnant. (For all you geniuses out there, we cannot.)I also think there are numerous bigots who understand perfectly what it means to have a uterus and that trans men get pregnant, but for some reason, trans men threaten their worldview so much—their shattered, pathetic, weak-ass worldview—that to accurately recognize trans men as men might undermine every stubborn vestige of traditional, thin-skinned masculinity that makes their tiny and uninspiring world go ‘round.Folks, just let trans people exist in our own authentic skins without said existence needing to somehow be a referendum on your own. I can’t emphasize enough how much reasonable adults in your day-to-day life—the vast majority of them cisgender—honestly feel second hand embarrassment when they watch you do this. And the reason they don’t tell you that is because they don’t wanna be the one who breaks the bad news.Please don’t embarrass yourself. It pains the rest of us.Charlotte's Web Thoughts is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.Hi, I’m Charlotte Clymer, and this is Charlotte’s Web Thoughts, my Substack. It’s completely free to access and read, but if you feel so moved to support my writing, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription: just $7/month or save money with the $70/annual sub. You can also go way above and beyond by becoming a Founding Member at $210. Get full access to Charlotte's Web Thoughts at charlotteclymer.substack.com/subscribe

[As always, this little blog/newsletter is how I pay my bills, and I would be so grateful if you support my writing with a paid subscription.]Four months is a long time these days. At least for me, it used to be that four months was a bit of a jog but easily contextualized in the brain’s aerial view. I could look backwards and easily spot that marker. Now, it seems, the space-time continuum has been cruelly mocked and warped by current events in such a way that a month in 2022 honestly feels legitimately equal to a quarter in 2011 and looking backward that far, even that much, is a fool’s errand, only bound to disappoint.Whatever you were doing four months ago, the world continues to indifferently spin into spun-up difference from what it once was. Four months ago was before 19 children and two teachers were murdered in Uvalde, TX. Four months ago was before a white supremacist murdered ten innocents, targeting the Black community in Buffalo, NY. Four months ago was before—wait, be honest with me: without looking it up, how easily can you recall the details of that horrific mass shooting on the New York City Subway in April?That wasn’t even four months ago.Exactly four months ago yesterday, I was at SXSW watching the world premiere of “Gabby Giffords Won’t Back Down”, a documentary about the former Arizona congresswoman who survived a brutal assassination attempt in 2011 that left six others murdered and has since been on a journey of remarkable advocacy, both in her medical rehabilitation after being shot in the head at point-blank range and the widely-praised leadership role she has undertaken in the gun reform movement. The documentary is superb, and we’ll get to that in a second. I want to further underline that four months ago was a completely different world, especially for the families in Highland Park and Tulsa and Uvalde and Buffalo and Pittsburgh and Sacramento and I wouldn’t blame you at all for missing details on a few of these. In America in 2022, it’s hard for even the most news-centric among us to keep up with the mass shootings that make national news, let alone the unending cascade of underreported mass shootings that tear through communities across the country.Since March 12th, 2022—the date of the world premiere at SXSW—there have been 250 mass shootings, according to The Gun Violence Archive.In other words, there has been an average of more than two mass shootings per day since Gabby Giffords premiered her deeply moving and galvanizing documentary in Austin. More than twice daily has there been a mass shooting in the United States over the past four months. More than twice daily. Think about that.This past Monday, July 11th, was a good day for America but particularly meaningful for Gabby Giffords and every other survivor and advocate in the gun reform movement. Just before noon, President Biden presided over a ceremony on the White House South Lawn to celebrate the signing of the Bipartisan Safer Communities Act, the first gun reform legislation signed into law in three decades.Brilliantly shepherded through the notoriously inept upper chamber by Senator Chris Murphy (D-CT), the law does a hell of a lot more than we’ve seen in recent memory and yet has also drawn criticism for falling well short of what our lawmakers should be doing to curb gun violence in America.That’s an observation which, forgive me, seems pretty goddamn redundant. Of course it doesn’t do enough. No bill short of taking every single common sense measure would be enough in this crisis. Universal background checks are common sense. Registration of every firearm is common sense. Proper licensing for every gun owner is common sense. Banning civilian ownership of assault weapons is common sense. The absence of any of these in a bill would make the legislation inherently flawed, even if they were the sole absence. That must be the good faith reading of any rational adult in government.But our government is not flush to the gills with rational adults, and so, the most rational adults must not let the perfect be the enemy of the good. Let me state resolutely: this new law is substantial progress and deserves celebration, and I personally don’t need more than a moment’s thought to understand that many thousands of lives will be saved because of it. That is worth celebrating.Of course it’s not enough. Why would it ever be enough? Eighteen years from now, thousands of children will have just graduated from high school who would have otherwise been brutally murdered in a mass shooting or by an abusive relative or by themselves with an unsecured firearm in their home after being purchased by a domestic abuser.I was there on Monday with hundreds of other attendees. I saw Manuel Oliver stand up in the middle of the President’s remarks, not far in front of me, and let the world know this isn’t enough. That’s true. It’s not enough. He has every right to be angry at the pace of all this. The man lost his child. That is a pain I can’t begin to fathom. I also saw numerous advocates carrying full-size photographs of their slain loved ones, far too many of those being a child’s school portrait, coming up to President Biden and other elected officials to thank them for taking a few steps forward, saving a few more thousand lives, giving a few more million people a bit more hope for the future.It seemed like just about every single gun reform advocate in the country was at this ceremony and almost all were willing to express two thoughts simultaneously: that this bill is a good thing, won through dogged advocacy, and it’s also not nearly enough.This new legislation wouldn’t have been possible without countless advocates doing the labor for so many years, and even so, Gabby Giffords’ story is one of those that stands out among that extraordinary crowd. A few hours after the ceremony, many of us made our way downtown to the U.S. Navy Memorial Plaza for the D.C. premiere of her documentary.Four months is a long time, as we’ve now established, and I could feel the difference between the screenings. I didn’t feel as depressed or worn out in Austin. Maybe it was the lack of national reporting on mass shootings in the first quarter of this year, but the whole situation seemed to significantly lessen in its incessant horror for a bit, certainly nothing like the gauntlet of terror to which we’ve all been witness since April.And yet, there was hope. Had we not all just been at the White House to observe some significant steps forward? The documentary seemed to match this balanced tone of grounded optimism and brutal honesty perfectly, beat for beat. The filmmakers, Julie Cohen and Betsy West, previously won widespread critical claim for their documentaries on the late Justice Ginsburg (2018), Pauli Murray (2021), and Julia Child (2021), public figures navigating the exceedingly thorny intersection of power, influence, and gender.“Gabby Giffords Won’t Back Down” is firmly within that tradition of excellence while also capturing a potent urgency that confronts the violent uncertainty of this hellish era in which we live. For a long time, there has existed a muted paranoia throughout the nation, a feeling that any of us could be next in a mass shooting. But the decline of our institutions and a corresponding decline of faith in our institutions and the ripped stitches of January 6th, raw and festering and wholly unclean, have added an additional and formidable layer of desperation to our national mood. How the hell are we gonna fix this when the tools required to fix it need fixing themselves?The documentary doesn’t blow smoke but it also refuses to back down from the claim that we can get through this together, if only we had the faith in each other to do so. Gabby Giffords and Mark Kelly have that kind of faith in each other, and it shows.So… the story.It was 2006, and Gabrielle Dee Giffords, a 36 year-old former CEO of her grandfather’s local tire company, had seemingly come out of nowhere to win a congressional seat covering an area the GOP had held for more than 20 years. She had sold the business in 2000, did two years in the state house, two years in the state senate, and then launched a long shot bid to win in a district where the Republican incumbent had trounced both of the Democratic challengers in the two previous election cycles by more than 24 points. Well, the GOP incumbent, Jim Kolbe, decided not to run for reelection and the more moderate GOP candidate most likely to succeed him was plunged into scandal and GOP voters chose a far more conservative successor and Democrats nationwide had one hell of a year in effective political messaging (on their way to taking back the House), and suddenly, this seat seemed very much up for grabs.But that all still fails to account for the magnitude of the pendulum rebound that occurred in Arizona’s 8th congressional district that year. Giffords didn’t win a nail-biter. She didn’t simply take the edge in a photo finish.She won by more than 12 points, a swing of 36 points among voters from Republican to Democrat in only two years. It wasn’t just that she won in a landslide but that she did so in a district that was overwhelmingly Republican-supporting.And she did this while being unapologetically pro-choice, supporting a pathway to citizenship for undocumented immigrants, and refusing to agree that marriage should be restricted to one man and one woman (remember: this is 2006).How?The documentary highlights Giffords’ extraordinary interpersonal intelligence, at once empathetic and authentic and confident and completely disarming to even some of her most conservative constituents who didn’t support her, a dynamic on the recipient that’s described by admirers as being “gabbyfied”. That’s not an exaggeration. Go look up interviews that Giffords did before the shooting. She sounds like a real person. She sounds like the most evolved form of a kind and well informed neighbor who truly wants to make the world a better place. I have been a student of politics for a long time and I’ve heard countless anecdotes about Clinton and Biden and a handful of others making someone in a crowded room briefly feel like they’re the only person in the world. But even that effect carries something of a conceit that we all seem to accept: this is their job and they’re the best in the country at it and the Greats are meant to suspend reality for a few moments. It’s almost like a magic trick and we understand it’s not real and the vast majority of us are okay with that.The thing about Gabby Giffords, what seems abundantly clear, is that she never needed the benefit of reality being suspended in order to reach someone. It wasn’t magic. It was just her. The opening scenes of the documentary point to Giffords’ most likely trajectory back in the early aughts: a handful of terms in the House, then probably some time in the Senate, and down the road, it is implied (and quite rightly), a truly competitive candidacy for the White House from a notable swing state, probably sooner rather than later.It was the first week of January in 2011 when Giffords and her advisors had made plans to huddle in D.C. and start prepping for a likely run against then-Sen. Jeff Flake in 2012. (By the way, can you imagine that race? She would have cleaned his clock.)Before they could do that, there was a constituent event to attend, “Congress on Your Corner”, a feature of her district outreach that had become a high priority for Giffords. It was supposed to be 90 minutes of greeting folks and talking out their concerns in front of the Safeway in La Toscana Village. Just past 10am, as Giffords and her staff engaged with constituents, a coward whom I refuse to name, armed with a Glock 19 pistol and several magazines he had purchased at a sporting goods store just a 12 minute drive away, walked up to the Congresswoman, shot her in the head at point blank range, and then began firing at everyone else. Gabriel Zimmerman, 30, Gifford’s community outreach director; Dorwan Stoddard, 76, retired construction worker; Phyllis Schneck, 79, homemaker; John Roll, 63, Chief Judge of the U.S. District Court for Arizona; Dorothy “Dot” Morris, 76, retired secretary; and nine year-old Christina-Taylor Green, who was getting interested in civics and wanted to meet the Congresswoman.Six deaths, 14 injured, including Giffords, in less than 60 seconds of shooting. Daniel Hernández, Jr., an intern in her office, had the wherewithal to slow Giffords’ bleeding and ensure she didn’t choke on her own blood, long enough for paramedics to arrive five minutes after the shooting started. This would save her life at a critical moment.Gabby Giffords was pronounced dead to most of the country for at least an hour that Saturday afternoon. NPR ran with what they thought was a critical scoop, based on two unconfirmed sources, and the rest of national media did the bulk of the work in pushing it out. At one point, every major network was reporting that Giffords had been assassinated. By the way, as much as I love NPR and certainly support their journalism, the close of their explanation and apology over this incident, more than a decade ago, is ludicrous: “While NPR made a significant mistake that dinged its credibility, it should be commended for quickly apologizing and being transparent. Rather than hurting NPR's credibility, taking responsibility for the mistake should enhance it.”What?Mark Kelly, Gifford’s husband, a seasoned NASA astronaut who was then prepping for an upcoming shuttle mission, listened to a news broadcast informing him that his wife had been murdered and broke down.As much as this documentary is about gun reform and Giffords’ journey of recovery and her love story with Kelly, that particular scene over NPR’s callous approach at the time, the normalized rush for media to be first rather than be right, is especially potent. The problem with clumsy media going for clicks and listeners rather than accuracy is one that very much persists to this day.Did I mention that Giffords and her family have a hell of a sense of humor? I certainly didn’t expect to laugh as much as I did while watching a documentary on an assassination attempt. Throughout her recovery, Giffords, even through the dense fog of recalibrating her brain, sparks scenes with her wit and warmth. Her chemistry with Kelly—it almost feels underwhelming to describe it that way—is the engine of the movie. During the Q&A after the D.C. screening, CNN’s Kate Bolduan asked Giffords and filmmakers Cohen and West about the undeniable theme of a “feminist marriage” between them — a true partnership between Giffords and Kelly that tracks a balanced but nuanced inverse of their public roles before and after the shooting.Giffords eventually returned to the House in the midst of her recovery for critical votes but declined to run again, the health complications being too much to surmount at the time. Kelly, having completed his fourth shuttle mission, retired from NASA, pissed as could be about the lackluster response from Congress following the attempted assassination on his wife and gun violence generally, particularly in the wake of Sandy Hook, and launched a bid for John McCain’s old seat in the Senate.Kelly, whom the documentary lovingly describes as far more of an engineer than a politician, is guided through his campaign by Giffords. One notable and hilarious scene shows Giffords tutoring Kelly on the maiden speech he’s scheduled to deliver following his victory against Martha McSally. “Slow down, head up”, Giffords playfully urges Kelly, who demonstrates an impressive adaptation to a skill set he’s never needed.For his part, Kelly’s predominant role is caregiver, tending to Giffords throughout her recovery process, keeping the family steady and optimistic, doing the emotional labor typically expected of women, and, all the while, continuing his demanding work as a literal NASA astronaut.Cohen and West depict an ideal marriage of equals, simply two human beings who love each other and bring out the best qualities in one another’s hearts during the worst of times.Their relationships, with each other and their kids and their close circle of friends and family, emphasize the importance of community.I met Gabby Giffords in Austin after that screening back in March and couldn’t help but get a picture with her after the D.C. screening on Tuesday. She didn’t know me from Jane, just another admirer in the crowd, and yet, she took the time in both moments to thank me for attending, gave me a big hug, and said some encouraging words. I was most certainly gabbyfied.Four months is a long time these days, and the world is already very, very different from March, as it will be in November, four months from now. The speed of change has become so quick, seemingly everything in flux, that we are forced, for our own sense of stability, to grab things that are steady and hold on for dear life.It is in uncertain times that leaders who can offer us a sense of certainty shine the brightest. The Gabby Giffords who was once discussed as a likely future presidential candidate more than a decade ago is the same Gabby Giffords who received the Presidential Medal of Freedom, the nation’s highest civilian honor, last week.Folks will point to her example of recovery and resilience or the work that’s been done by her organization, eponymously named “Giffords”, to educate the public on gun violence and push for common sense reform, or her general leadership in the public arena, which is more respected and influential than ever.With humility, I would offer that none of these are the greatest achievements of Gabby Giffords. Her greatest achievement is reminding us all of the importance of community in an era through which our country has never demonstrated a greater need for it. Four months is a long time and the world is changing quick on its own axis but Gabby Giffords, more than a decade on, even in her most vulnerable moments, hasn’t changed much at all. She’s always been right there, in the community, doing the work. If leadership means empathetic continuity, she’s among the greatest to ever take that walk.God bless her for it.—[“Gabby Giffords Won’t Back Down” enters nationwide release in theaters this Friday, July 15th. View the trailer here. Take my word and go see it. Find showtimes here.]Charlotte's Web Thoughts is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.Hi, I’m Charlotte Clymer, and this is Charlotte’s Web Thoughts, my Substack. It’s completely free to access and read, but if you feel so moved to support my writing, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription: just $7/month or save money with the $70/annual sub. You can also go way above and beyond by becoming a Founding Member at $210. Get full access to Charlotte's Web Thoughts at charlotteclymer.substack.com/subscribe

Charlotte's Web Thoughts is a reader-supported publication. To receive new posts and support my work, consider becoming a free or paid subscriber.For a brief period, early in my childhood, I lived in a tiny apartment with my mother, her second husband, a pair of kids each. This was the early ‘90s, and I vaguely remember being in kindergarten at the time.Our apartment complex was one of those highway-adjacent, stacked situations that most resembles a fleshed out Tetris “L” wrapping around—in retrospect—a surprisingly clean parking lot, complete with a tall and gleaming flag pole that jutted out of a centralized island of well manicured grass. I don’t remember exactly when it started, but every morning, being the oldest kid and the only one in school, I would stand outside alone waiting for the school bus, not far from the flag pole, and watch as this older gentleman—I believe he was the property manager—carefully unfurl an American flag, fasten it to the halyard, and carefully raise it to the top, always graceful and never in a rush.At some point, one of these mornings, after being captivated a number of times by the sight of this, I began saluting the flag with my little right hand, something which I have to assume I picked up from a TV show because this was just before the internet started becoming commonplace in schools, much less runty apartments housing kids on the free lunch program.This I remember vividly: the gentleman and I never exchanged words, but the first time I did that salute, on my own volition, I had never seen an adult looked so pleased as that man beaming wide at me, this weirdo kid who didn’t really know what I was doing when I made that gesture every morning.I vaguely recall my mother marveling over a conversation she had with Mr. Ramirez (the flag-hoisting gentleman) about the saluting because, again, kinda weird for a small kid to be into that.To at least one naïve six year-old’s eyes, the American flag was absolutely gorgeous, albeit full of context and complexity which I would only learn much later.It also strangely gave me a feeling that I couldn’t quite place at the time and which I only understood later to be: a sense of belonging and security. My parents were a godawful mess, home life was definitely bad on many levels, and this little morning ritual became something of a small celebration. School was a safe place, with structure and empathy and wonder, and that bit of ceremony every morning was a checkpoint-of-sorts. In a sad way, the American flag and the gentleman pulling it up with profound grace and the school bus arriving to our apartment complex all told me that everything was gonna be okay. There was a whole world out there waiting for me to explore it, far beyond the confines of that shitty little apartment with all its misery, full of some kind of goodness I had to assume was there.More than anything, that expectation of structure became a weird catalyst for my interest in American government. I loved reading about our history—not always a complete or honest history at that reading level, mind you—and the political leaders who had shaped our path as a nation, for better or worse.I learned about civics early on. I devoured books in my school library about elections and Congress and presidents and found, quite quickly, that every question answered led to ten more questions in my growing noggin. And like any committed young political dork, it became easier over time to see patterns in our government — not just the rhythms of electoral changeover but knowing bits of information about our government that were available to all but read by few. Having lived in our nation’s capital for the past 15 years or so, with tens of thousands of other equally dorky people my age obsessed with government and politics and history, I have noticed over time what can only be described as the slow and incredibly painful devolution of the faith we once held in our institutions.I’m not talking about run-of-the-mill corruption and nonsense. It wasn’t as though any of us who had read a few serious presidential biographies had arrived in D.C. expecting a glittering presentation of democratic virtues and elected officials dedicated to preserving them. The old adage about “laws and sausages” was easy enough to respect as a warning, and up to that point, there had certainly been brutal chapters in our history—slavery, Civil War, suffrage, internment of Japanese Americans, Jim Crow, etc.—that stripped away much of the unnecessary varnish.No, I’m talking about the shock of watching our nation increasingly fail to maintain even the already low standards of institutional trust, the collapse of those predictable rhythms in the machinations of political power, the invariably problematic but broadly expected outcomes of a system that was broken, to be sure, but very far from shattered.For nearly five decades, Gallup has surveyed public confidence in our institutions, and just over the past 20 years—2002 being the starting point, I turned 16 that fall—trust has eroded dramatically across the board, as reflected in the combined total of “great deal/quite a lot” responses from everyday Americans:Organized religion has gone from 45 percent to 31 percent.Trust in the Supreme Court has been cleanly halved: 50 percent to 25 percent.Congress has taken a particularly dismal trend: 29 percent to a mere 7 percent.Television news has dropped from 35 percent to 11 percent, and newspapers have slid 35 percent to 16 percent.The Presidency, as an institution, went from a high of 58 percent to this year’s 23 percent, its lowest mark in the history of the annual poll, going back consistently to 1991. To be fair, that was in the aftermath of 9/11, so, perhaps the previous year’s 48 percent is more accurate, but still: that’s more than half. Even the military, the country’s most trusted federal institution, is at its lowest level of trust in more than 20 years. Gallup has asked Americans another question semi-frequently since 1979: “In general, are you satisfied or dissatisfied with the way things are going in the United States at this time?”If you scan through the timeline of reported surveys, it’s easy to notice where low numbers in American satisfaction coincided with less-than-great moments in our recent history (some examples): 12 percent, 19 percent, and 17 percent over the time of Pres. Carter’s twin crises — the oil shortage and the detainment of American hostages by the Iranian government during 1979-81; 14 percent in the summer of 1992 over recession struggles; a stark 7 percent at the height of the Great Recession in 2008; and 13 percent in the summer of 2020, as the nation grappled with COVID lockdowns and massive protests in the wake of the murder of George Floyd by law enforcement and Trump’s steadfast incompetence in the face of all of it.The latest figure is 13 percent, surveyed over the first three weeks of June, down from 36 percent a little over a year ago, right as Pres. Biden implemented the final withdrawal of troops from Afghanistan. It’s important to note this latest survey was completed just four days before the Supreme Court overturned Roe v. Wade, so the next iteration of these figures will certainly be a fascinating gut punch.Those numbers give us a snapshot of context for this era, but they’re wholly unnecessary to feel that pervasive sense of uneasiness throughout American society. It’s not just that times are bad; it’s that it feels as though there’s an increasing chance things may not get better if something doesn’t change.Ardent students of American politics have always been able to point to the Pendulum Theory as a crude way of illustrating where our government has come from and where it’s going: basically, you wait long enough, the balance of power will shift from left-of-center to right-of-center and back and forth over time. The pendulum may stall or take its sweet time, but it always comes back. It also suggests Americans, in free and fair elections, will usually split party control between the White House and Congress.For example, even though Presidents Reagan and Bush 41 crushed their Democratic opponents in three consecutive presidential elections, Democratic House Speaker Tip O’Neill held an iron grip on his chamber during their tenures. The ‘90s saw the inverse: Pres. Clinton became the first Democratic president properly reelected since FDR (two consecutive top-of-ticket victories) while the GOP took over the House for the first time in 40 years (and held it).Here’s another one: the party of a first-term president almost always loses seats in the House during Midterms. The sole recent exception was Pres. Bush in 2002, whose party gained eight more seats on the strength of his post-9/11 approval rating.There are countless examples of these patterns, and in a strange way, they can be somewhat comforting in especially dark times. The Bush Administration, as horrific and brutal as it was, still carried the implication of the pendulum swinging back at some point. And swing back it did: Democrats regained Congress in 2006 and the White House in 2008.After the shock of 2016, the pendulum prevailed again: Trump’s party lost Congress in 2018 in what was recognized as both a backlash against his terrible policies and as part of the long pattern of the president’s party negotiating the public’s desire for split power.But for the first time in my life, I am at the point where I must fully question whether the pendulum exists anymore, and it scares me.That will be discussed in Part II on Friday.Hi, I’m Charlotte Clymer, and this is Charlotte’s Web Thoughts, my Substack. It’s completely free to access and read, but if you feel so moved to support my writing, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription: just $7/month or save money with the $70/annual sub. You can also go way above and beyond by becoming a Founding Member at $210. Get full access to Charlotte's Web Thoughts at charlotteclymer.substack.com/subscribe

This was originally posted as a Twitter thread on April 16, 2018. Because today is D.C. Pride, I thought it’d be lovely to make y’all smile and republish it here. As always, I would be so grateful if you support my writing with a paid subscription.Today, I was sitting in front of a cafe in downtown D.C., minding my own goddamn business, when three people who were clearly tourists of some sort walked up and gestured for me to take out my headphones. And I did and one of them said:"Can we pray for you?"I asked them why they wanted to pray for me, and the same person answered that they felt called by God to walk around the streets of D.C. and let God's voice tell them who might be broken or otherwise need prayer. She literally used the word "broken".Now... I'm a Christian, and I'm not opposed to prayer or people praying specifically for me when done in good faith. But I was dressed femme as hell today with gorgeous makeup and clothing and earrings, and I sure as hell caught the gist of why these folks happened upon me to offer prayer.And I thought: okay, let's do this. And I so asked their spokesperson if she understood how it might look to be searching for "broken" people to pray for and specifically pick out a random transgender person on the street to offer prayer. And they looked more than taken aback.So, I stood up, with what passed for a smile barely concealing my annoyance with this situation, and I asked them what the Book of Matthew says about prayer. And their eyes go wide and the guy on the right starts nervously stammering in front of me in front of this cafe.It's clear he's having trouble answering the question, as are the other two, so ambushed are they that the "broken" transgender person is asking a simple question about a common verse on prayer in Matthew, and I wait for a few seconds more than what is comfortable to answer."You know how Matthew says that where two or three are gathered in Jesus' name, there He is with us."And they stare blankly at me because they have tiptoed with their condescending, passive-aggressive b******t straight into a brick wall, and I have no intention of going easy."That is what Matthew says, is it not?"And one of them says "yes, that's right", and they don't understand that the verse is commonly misused as a prayer for intercession rather than its true purpose as a prayer of accountability. And here, today, I shall bring accountability.I have had it up to here with Evangelicals sticking their noses into how my humanity is defined, and I will be damned if they're going to interrupt my Sunday afternoon coffee when I certainly wasn't bothering them."So, let's pray."And they nervously step forward into a circle.I say to one of them: "You start us off." And she does. It is quick and antiseptic because they, the three of them, want to get the hell away from this awkward situation. And then I pick it up when it's clear she's done."Lord Jesus, thank you for the benefit of these friends..." and I'm quite honest with God about how I hope She'll bless my new friends with a priority for affirmation and inclusion of others. That their community will honor all as God made them and value the strength of diversity.And I specifically mention the natural beauty of the LGBTQ community and thank God again for making us as we exist, and I throw-in there a genuine wish that their trip back home is a safe one and wrap the prayer up in the usual Evangelical banal phraseology to let them know that I know their community's vernacular better than they do, and by the time I am finished, by the time I have translated the score back to them by tenfold relative to their passive-aggressive "let us pray for you", they murmur their thank yous and scuttle thou hell away.And now, hopefully, they will know how it feels to have someone inject an overwrought and venomous self-righteousness into the core of their being and--I hope--realize how much actions like these diminish the power of prayer and enable so much harm to LGBTQ people.Evangelicals: you are not doing the Lord's work by dumping your misplaced condescension on random strangers you believe to be, uh, "broken".These people did not want to know more about me. They wanted to talk at me and pray at me. And I'm fairly sure Jesus would not do that.So, remember: if you ever feel the need to do this... don't. Because it may backfire spectacularly, and you'll wind up praying for a restored sense of peace after your varnish gets unceremoniously stripped away.Prayer should be a loving act, not a bizarre political weapon.Hi, I’m Charlotte Clymer, and this is Charlotte’s Web Thoughts, my Substack. It’s completely free to access and read, but if you feel so moved to support my writing, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription: just $7/month or save money with the $70/annual sub. You can also go way above and beyond by becoming a Founding Member at $210. Get full access to Charlotte's Web Thoughts at charlotteclymer.substack.com/subscribe

[Quick note: I would love for you to support my writing with a paid subscription. This is how I pay my bills, and I’d be grateful. Thanks for considering!]“Can I ask you a personal question?”It almost always starts this way, always with the same softness of tone, eyes suddenly lowered any relative number of degrees as reflects the life experience of the person asking to inquire, sometimes nervous and shifting, sometimes gesturing vaguely with their newly-leaned-in posture and locked eyes toward some self-imagined form of conspiratorial allyship, sometimes a furrowed brow involuntarily aligned with pure curiosity, most often made with no ill intentions, honestly just wondering, pretty please, if I could talk to them about my personal medical history, including the implied request to know how my genitals currently look.I believe most cis people understand why it’s wrong (inherently even!) to ask about a transgender person’s medical choices, to ask—I say again—for a description of the most private part of their body. But many don’t! I would know. It happens frequently enough that I’ve become quite adept at defusing what is readymade to be a very awkward interaction.Oh, that’s the other thing: when this good faith transgression is made, not only do trans people get stuck navigating how to extricate themselves from this exchange but we must do so gracefully, with the utmost tact, which includes, I am pained to say, comforting the cis person who thought it was a good idea to ask the question.“Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to offend.”I have just told the person in as calm and comforting a voice I can manage that it’s generally frowned upon for anyone who is not a medical professional actively engaged in assessment to ask about a person’s medical history—any person, not just trans people—and that there are overwhelming financial and cultural barriers to life-saving, transition-related health care and I offer a quick “but don’t worry, let’s just move on” and I mean it. They cannot move on.“I really am so sorry. I don’t know why I asked that.”And now, I have the distinct pleasure of listening to this for about twenty seconds. In that time, it is important that I don’t indicate with my nonverbal communication that I am somehow upset because trans people who navigate inappropriate behavior toward them don’t get to choose—not really—how we’re perceived to have responded — notice the word perceived.I tell them that it’s fine (by now, it is not fine) in order mercifully kill this conversation and attempt to claw my way back to happiness in some other part of the room.Cis people are inappropriately asked about their medical histories, too. I don’t at all want to suggest otherwise. This is not a trans-only experience, but the motivations feel different, which is enough to be upset, I think?For example: how much thought has this person devoted to my genitals and workshopping questions to ascertain info about them? Where does one think about these things? I hope it’s in the junk drawer hours of the brain’s processes, the autopilot and idle moments right before bed or getting ready for work, so that I play a mere supporting character to whatever the hell else is clanking around in their noggin.Again, most cis people don’t do this, which is certainly great news but simultaneously makes the intimate interrogations stand out all the more.Any given cis person being progressive helps, I guess, but offers no guarantee of privacy for trans and non-binary people. I think that’s what has surprised me most on this particular matter since coming out. I have met highly-educated progressives who work in politics and somehow never got the memo not to ask strangers about their private medical history.I have rolled this over so many times in my mind, and it’s hard not to wonder if these people, coming from every background, know if they’re objectifying my body and sexualizing me.Many of the questioners have that shotgun apology ready with such a quickness that I can’t help but feel I’m watching the final draft of a conversation they’ve already had with a hypothetical trans or non-binary person while scrubbing the dandruff off their skull in the shower.That is to say: it feels quite anticipated. They knew it was wrong to ask, but they decided to roll the dice and have the apology ready in case things went south, my feelings about this very intimate matter being an afterthought.Fun!It comes across as gawking, like tapping the glass and peering inside a zoo exhibit. It doesn’t feel good. Please don’t do that.Though they are rare, there are some trans and non-binary people who feel completely comfortable chatting with total strangers about their personal medical choices, and bless them for taking on that labor. That is their choice.But like every marginalized community, we are not a monolith, and when a cis person sets out to ask for private information from a trans person and justifies it by saying they have a trans friend who talked to them about their surgeries, I can’t emphasize enough how much of a f*****g dork we think you are. I say that with kindness.I do have good news: Google is a subscription-free service. It costs nothing! Anyone can go to that website and willy-nilly search for whatever the hell intrigues them. There are countless millions of experiences conveyed by trans and non-binary people online, and an enterprising cis person who is acquainted with the technological wonders of mouse and keyboard will certainly learn a thing or two by doing the work themselves.In the meantime, let me buy you a drink, and we’ll talk about fun and interesting topics that allow you to see me as more than a collection of body parts.Hi, I’m Charlotte Clymer, and this is Charlotte’s Web Thoughts, my Substack. It’s completely free to access and read, but if you feel so moved to support my writing, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription: just $7/month or save money with the $70/annual sub. You can also go way above and beyond by becoming a Founding Member at $210. Get full access to Charlotte's Web Thoughts at charlotteclymer.substack.com/subscribe

[Folks, I’m not gonna lie: I would love for you to support my writing with a paid subscription. This is how I pay my bills, and I’d be grateful. Thanks for considering.]Good morning, and welcome to Pride Month 2022!This year’s Pride comes at a precarious moment in the history of the LGBTQ rights movement. Although there have been notable advances in LGBTQ equality in the past decade—same-sex marriage, non-discrimination employment protections, etc.—there remains a great deal of work left to be done in a country in which the vast majority of LGBTQ people live in parts of the United States that still discriminate in housing, public accommodations, credit, jury service, education, health care, and so many other areas of the public square.But there’s also this: the resurgence of vile anti-LGBTQ sentiment in the United States that has led to hundreds of anti-LGBTQ bills being introduced, this year alone, in state legislatures across the country, many of them being passed.I’m going to be writing a lot this month about LGBTQ equality, and I apologize in advance for blowing up your inboxes. As part of that, I want to highlight warm stories about LGBTQ equality, too, because I think it’s important that folks—especially those who are non-LGBTQ—are made aware of when things go right, when understanding is had, when equality is pursued in good faith.Many years ago, I attended an evangelical church here in Washington, D.C. where I was, I’m fairly certain, one of the very, very few progressives in attendance. That’s a story for another time, but the long and short of it is that I found community with many people around my age who did not share my political views but still wanted to share space with me.That is… until I came out as transgender.Now, I do have still have some friends from that time in my life whom I cherish, but sadly, there were many friendships that faded into the distance in much the same way someone might let the clock run out on a renewal notice. They had no interest in keeping a friendship going after I came out as a trans woman.That hurt, of course, and I would be lying if I said it didn’t make me suspicious of the intentions of so many Christians in this country who claim to be filled with Christ’s love but seem spiritually desiccated when it comes to loving trans people.I’m saying all this because recently, I had an interaction that gave me a lot of hope for the future, something which feels scarce lately.Someone on Twitter—I’ve anonymized them for privacy—said this to me:Now, I’ve never met this person, but I feel like I know them. They’re not that much different from any given person my age with whom I spent time as a young adult in Bible study groups and prayer meetings and weekend trips.I can’t emphasize enough how much guts it takes to be as vulnerable as this person is being. They not only left behind a community in which they enjoyed significant comfort—which can feel quite lonely, I would know—but they’re now making the effort to put some good into the world and demonstrate growth.I greatly admire them. It’s easy to avoid growth. I’ll be thinking of this person next time I make a mistake of my own and follow their example.I know there are millions of Americans who support LGBTQ rights but still find themselves uncertain of what to do because they’re afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing.All I can say to you is that I am also afraid of saying the wrong thing or making a mistake. And then, I do make mistakes because mistakes are inevitable. Mistakes are human. Mistakes are essential for growth.For example, do you know what I do when someone accidentally misgenders me or uses the wrong pronouns? I gently correct them and we move on. Because that person made a mistake in good faith and life is way too short to be scared and distrustful of each other over good faith mistakes.Because when I make a mistake and misgender someone—and yes, trans and non-binary people sometimes accidentally misgender each other—I have been extended similar grace in exchange for my good faith.This Pride Month, here is my request to those who are not LGBTQ: have the courage to make mistakes and learn from them. Let’s help each other learn. Let’s make it possible to move toward a future where people are more afraid of not learning from mistakes than making them.And I’ll be right there with you, making mistakes of my own and trying my best to grow through them.Hi, I’m Charlotte Clymer, and this is Charlotte’s Web Thoughts, my Substack. It’s completely free to access and read, but if you feel so moved to support my writing, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription: just $7/month or save money with the $70/annual sub. You can also go way above and beyond by becoming a Founding Member at $210. Get full access to Charlotte's Web Thoughts at charlotteclymer.substack.com/subscribe

[Hi there! Quick note: my little blog here is my main source of income. This will always be free to read, but I’m thankful for your financial support. Click here to purchase a paid subscription or gift one to someone in your life.]I'm a Christian, and here's the thing that particularly frustrates and annoys me when Bible-thumping, Rapture-weirdo politicians constantly reference prayer as the go-to when a mass shooting happens.Regardless of what you believe prayer does or does not do, it is, at its genuine root, a form of meditation. You are reflecting on that particular thing. You are choosing to focus on that one thing for a few moments.So, when a politician tells us they're praying over mass shootings, they're telling us they're reflecting on them. They're holding them in serious consideration. They're thinking through gun violence. You can't genuinely talk to God about a subject without thinking about that subject.For example, Ted Cruz has been in the Senate for going on ten years. Ten very long years of offering "thoughts and prayers" for victims of mass shootings and their families. He's literally telling us he's been privately thinking about this subject for ten years.Ted Cruz has supposedly been thinking about mass shootings for ten years in the Senate, and yet, he has provided no answers to this horrific and ongoing crisis beyond vaguely offering more "thoughts and prayers".Check out the tweet at the top that he put out just a few hours after a mass shooter brutally murdered 20 first graders and six of their teachers at Sandy Hook Elementary in Newtown, CT.That was almost ten years ago. That was literally thousands of mass shootings ago. Countless “thoughts and prayers” tweets, press releases, and quotes since then.Do you know what Ted Cruz did after Sandy Hook? He was one of three GOP senators to filibuster bills that would have implemented reasonable and meaningful gun reform after that horrific day.If Ted Cruz has been thinking for ten years in the Senate and has come up with nothing credible or meaningful in response to this epidemic of carnage, is he really bad at thinking or is he really praying at all?Either he's lazy at thinking, or he's lying about praying.Which is it?Personally, I don’t think he’s lazy at thinking. His cognitive abilities are adequate.I truly believe that Ted Cruz just doesn’t pray, at least about mass shootings. Like so many of his performative, conservative colleagues, Cruz clearly doesn’t really care about horrific gun violence.He doesn’t. I think that’s fairly obvious because if he did care, if Ted Cruz wanted to work in good faith to reduce the frequency of mass shootings, he would have come up with something out of all that prayer—all that thinking—that takes a meaningful step toward compromise and healing.Ted Cruz is lying when he says he prays about this. He’s not talking to God. And that’s a damn shame because I think God has a lot to say to him about this.Hi, I’m Charlotte Clymer, and this is Charlotte’s Web Thoughts, my Substack. It’s completely free to access and read, but if you feel so moved to support my writing, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription: just $7/month or save money with the $70/annual sub. You can also go way above and beyond by becoming a Founding Member at $210. Get full access to Charlotte's Web Thoughts at charlotteclymer.substack.com/subscribe

[Quick personal note: my kind and patient speaking agent wants me to remind you that Pride Month is a week away. If you’re looking for a speaker for your company, conference, college or some related Pride event, I’m available. Just click that link.]You may have been doom-scrolling yesterday and caught the latest hysteria of anti-LGBTQ extremists in the conservative movement. State Farm—the insurance company whose commercials you’ve definitely seen everywhere in the past 15 years—had a really cool idea: partnering with The GenderCool Project to provide LGBTQ-themed books to schools and communities throughout the country, including Florida, where the infamous “Don’t Say Gay, Don’t Say Trans” bill recently signed by Ron DeSantis is set to take effect on July 1st.It’s a private program in which schools and communities can proactively participate but, of course, doesn’t require anyone else to participate or contribute their dollars toward that participation. In January, a State Farm employee sent an email announcement to Florida colleagues asking for volunteers to coordinate with interested schools and communities. It noted that the company would be enlisting the help of 550 volunteers nationwide—presumably State Farm agents—to gift a three-book bundle to participating recipients, noting:"The project’s goal is to increase representation of LGBTQ+ books and support out communities in having challenging, important and empowering conversations with children Age 5+.”Recently, that email was forwarded to Consumers’ Research, an anti-LGBTQ extremist organization (which will I not link to), who then sent it to far-right “news” outlets and anti-LGBTQ influencer Libs of TikTok, all of whom gleefully spent yesterday pushing content that claimed State Farm is indoctrinating five-year olds to become transgender.Because hateful online campaigns of this variety have become commonplace, lately, and I was working quite a bit all afternoon, I didn’t take much notice when State Farm starting trending on Twitter from the relentless propaganda and s**t-posting by anti-LGBTQ extremists.Then came news early that evening of an emergency email sent by State Farm’s Chief Diversity Officer to all employees announcing the company would no longer support the program. Here’s a screenshot of that email:This wasn’t in support of required curriculum. It was a program using State Farm’s own money to buy 1,650 LGBTQ-themed books to be distributed to interested schools and communities across the country. In fact, given the total number of books being gifted, it would be damn near impossible to have anything approaching a large-scale awareness campaign. If anything, I see it as a very nice gesture and nod toward the importance of educating about LGBTQ families.But State Farm, being the cowards they are, instead of aggressively pushing back against the hateful censorship of anti-LGBTQ extremists, chose to humor the premise that anyone in this situation, any parent or child, was being required to do something they didn’t want to do.No one was. It was intended to be all-privately-funded, all-volunteer, and all strictly based on recipients choosing to be part of the program.But State Farm pulled the plug because they got scared and decided it’s more important to placate anti-LGBTQ extremists than stand beside the LGBTQ community in a moment of horrific uncertainty.Of course, given State Farm’s political donations in the last cycle, this shouldn’t come as a huge shock. According to Open Secrets, a majority of the company’s political contributions for the 2020 elections went to Republican/conservative federal candidates, all of them opposing basic LGBTQ rights.Those of us who are active in LGBTQ politics have been bracing for what this year’s Pride Month—starting in a week—will reveal about the strength of support so many companies have expressed for LGBTQ rights in recent years.Companies tossing up a rainbow logo on June 1st whilst contributing to anti-LGBTQ politicians has long been a problem—referred to as “rainbow washing”—but this year is different. This year, even the performative emptiness of a company’s vague statement of support for LGBTQ people seems to be vulnerable to a massive and expensive effort by the Republican Party and conservative movement to erase LGBTQ people from the public square and deem anyone who fights back, including allies, as “groomers”.Pride Month this year will be less of a celebration and more of a grim acknowledgement that the GOP is clearly coming after us and have no empathy or nuance or basic sense of humanity in how they do it.When attempting to erase a minority group, it’s essential to anesthetize public support for their humanity. The GOP has spent a long time attempting to do this in the broad public square. Recently, the bulk of that focus turned specifically to schools and fear-mongering over LGBTQ families, teachers, and students. Now, the GOP and anti-LGBTQ extremists are focusing their hateful rage on private companies who supposedly support LGBTQ people in the communities in which they do business. Last night, State Farm caved and gave up on being a good neighbor.I wish I could say I wasn’t worried more companies aren’t set to do the same.Hi, I’m Charlotte Clymer, and this is Charlotte’s Web Thoughts, my Substack. It’s completely free to access and read, but if you feel so moved to support my writing, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription: just $7/month or save money with the $70/annual sub. You can also go way above and beyond by becoming a Founding Member at $210. Get full access to Charlotte's Web Thoughts at charlotteclymer.substack.com/subscribe